Dear Evan Hansen is the deeply personal and profoundly contemporary Broadway phenomenon. Evan Hansen is about to get the one thing he’s always wanted: a chance to finally fit in.
The show’s breakout song, the Act One finale, is “You Will Be Found.” Read and listen to the lyrics for the song, written by the composers Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, and watch the virtual choir version of it created by Dear Evan Hansen and performed by its fans, HERE.
We invite 11th-grade and 12th-grade students in New York City to write a college-application style essay (no longer than 650-words) that describes how “You Will Be Found” resonates with and inspires you. Did it prompt you to challenge your thinking or actions in some way? Was it a catalyst for personal growth? Explain the song’s significance to you, and its impact on your life.
Here we present the winner and finalists:
Caroline Ji, Brooklyn, New York
It’s been 81 days since I last stepped on the track. I still feel the burning sensation that lingered in my throat as I walked off lane two, clutching my bib with a sigh of relief. At last, I could put my season to rest.
When the coronavirus started making headlines, I had a nonchalant disposition; I doubted that the coronavirus would travel 7,476 miles from Wuhan to New York. So for a while, everything was normal: every day, I woke up, went to school, and came home.
Around mid-March, facets of my life I had never acknowledged had gradually become unrecognizable to me. First, it was the masks. Next, it was the subways. It didn’t truly sink in until Mayor de Blasio closed all New York City schools; the news hit too close to home.
Upon this announcement, my phone exploded with texts. “What’s happening with APs? College? What about teachers? Families?” The questions accumulated as social media groups flooded with apprehensive students caving into the anxiety that had been brooding for weeks.
I tried not to give into the hysteria by assuring myself that as long as my peers were safe, the situation would work itself out. But I, too, couldn’t suppress my uneasiness for much longer.
So I did what I always did when troubled: I laced up my sneakers and slipped out of the door. Except it felt different this time.
I was in the middle of stretching when I could no longer ignore the sheer silence of my block. The frequent chatter amongst neighbors tanning on their front porches, the honking of cars at the stoplight, the incessant stir of buzzing bees and chirping birds were gone, replaced by the invisible, yet frighteningly tangible force of the coronavirus. As I ran along my usual route, I noticed how empty the streets were except for the rare passersby shielded by face masks, how the pet shop that usually bustled with laughter was vacant and lifeless.
Growing up in New York City, the sounds of chatter, city life, and busy streets were the sounds of home, with running being a relaxing escape from it all. But this run spoke nothing of relaxation. Discomforted by the silence, I let my mind wander.
Negativity clouded my thoughts. When would I see my friends again? What about my grandparents who I visited every Saturday? What if my father, whose job depended on a stable economy, would join the growing number of laid off workers? Worse of all, what if someone I knew fell victim to the coronavirus?
Exhausted by the internal conflict occurring in my brain, I soon found myself humming “You Will Be Found,” letting the calming rhythm dictate the cadence of my strides. My mind and body became one, melting into the song and absorbing every lyric. “You Will Be Found” had always resonated with me, giving me comfort from midnight meltdowns to morning showers. But in that instant, the song resonated with me in a way it had never before.
The apprehension that initially weighed down my every stride became a little lighter. As lonely as I felt being one of the few souls roaming the streets, I thought of the frontline physicians who had courageously sacrificed their lives to serve the mass of dying patients, the produce workers who worked late nights to ensure that grocery aisles were filled, and the relief groups providing aid to those in need—the heroes, or friends as Evan describes, that carry a suffering city out of the dark and into a place of hope. Ironically, despite having to stay six feet apart at all times, a sense of kinship has risen out of this pandemic, making the silence louder, the emptiness fuller, and the strangeness more normal. Evan’s message of hope and unity reminds me that despite such trying times, I am not alone; we are not alone.
Sylvi Warshaver-Stein, New York, New York
Amy Liu, New York, New York
Katie O’Shea, Rye, New York
Jillian Carson, Bayport, New York
Kathleen O’Connor, Greenwich, Connecticut
Kelsey Rivera, Hicksville, New York
Nicole Rosenzweig, Rye Brook, New York
Ryan Padala, Garden City, New York
Annunziata Rich, Bay Shore, New York
Alyssa Pastina, Stony Point, New York
Shelby Levine, Jericho, New York
Lucian Zanes, Brooklyn, New York
Brennen Yu, Brookville, New York
Aaliss Osidele, Brooklyn, New York
Youssef El Mosalami, Brooklyn, New York
Denisse Medina Flores, Bronx, New York